Chapter Forty-Nine: Request to Halt Before the Immortal Stone

The voice behind him sounded like an alarm bell ringing in his ears, rousing Zhong Ming from his trance. His vision seemed to shudder, and as he came to his senses, the scene of celestial immortals singing and dancing had vanished; all that remained were the worshippers and that peculiar stone.

Standing behind Zhong Ming was the young priest he had encountered days earlier at the teahouse. Dressed in a worn but clean Taoist robe and carrying a wicker box on his back, the handsome youth looked exactly as he had then—unchanged in the least.

Turning his head and seeing the young priest, Zhong Ming exclaimed in surprise, “Little priest, it’s you?”

The young priest smiled, as if he had anticipated Zhong Ming’s reaction, and performed a Taoist salute. “Layman Zhong, my master divined that you would face calamity today and sent me to assist you.”

Zhong Ming said nothing, scrutinizing the young priest closely. Both he and his master had an air of mystery about them. As Mr. Guo had warned the other day, trouble was brewing in these borderlands, and many strange and unusual people would appear. He had urged Zhong Ming countless times not to associate with such folk, lest he be drawn into unnecessary trouble.

After a moment’s thought, Zhong Ming was still undecided, unsure whether to respond to the priest. The old priest had doggedly pursued him that day, merely to tell him he was “a rootless duckweed fated to drift”? Clearly, these priests were not so benevolent; they must have their own designs. As for what they wanted from Zhong Ming, he could not yet guess.

While Zhong Ming hesitated, the young priest stepped forward and said, “Layman Zhong, we should not linger here. The Limmortal Stone is greatly corrosive to one’s spirit. Let us leave this place quickly, and I will speak with you further.”

Seeing Zhong Ming’s hesitation, the priest smiled. “You may follow me, Layman Zhong. My master awaits you in the village.”

With that, the young priest stopped trying to persuade him. He popped a small black pill into his mouth, turned, and ran toward the direction of Muddy Village. His speed was astonishing, rivaling a horse; he seemed to blur into a fleeting shadow and, in the blink of an eye, disappeared into the distance.

Indeed, there was something uncanny about him—he must have used some Taoist art to run so fast.

Zhong Ming frowned slightly, mounted his horse, and before leaving, cast one more glance at the massive stone inscribed with the characters for “Limmortal.” In that instant, he seemed to hear immortal music again, and the golden words appeared to writhe.

He quickly shut his eyes and turned away, not daring another look at the Limmortal Stone. Though he did not know the young priest’s true purpose, he knew he could not remain near that stone. Shaking his head, Zhong Ming muttered to himself, “If it’s fate, it cannot be avoided. If it’s a curse, I cannot escape it. So be it—let me meet this old priest.”

With this thought, he wasted no more time, turned his horse, and rode toward Muddy Village.

Urged onward, Firecloud galloped to the village entrance before Zhong Ming reined him in. As he re-entered the village, the atmosphere felt different from when he’d left—a return to the usual clamor and bustle.

He dismounted and led his horse to the Sun family’s courtyard, only to find it entirely surrounded by villagers, packed so tightly there was no way through.

Had the sick villagers all recovered?

Zhong Ming was astonished and full of questions. He hurriedly led his horse closer, and as he approached, Ernniu spotted him and called out, “Mr. Zhong is back—make way, everyone!”

The villagers quickly parted, opening a path for Zhong Ming into the Sun family’s courtyard.

Voices greeted him from all sides, but Zhong Ming was in no mood to respond; he nodded vaguely, handed the reins to Fei Dacheng, and entered the courtyard.

Inside, two priests stood—it was the blind old priest and the young one. The old priest occupied Old Sun’s favorite rattan chair, looking utterly at ease, while the young priest distributed pills to the villagers from a porcelain bottle.

Carpenter Li, catching sight of Zhong Ming, adjusted his robe and stepped forward. “Fortune was with us today. Daoist Zhang happened to be passing through and used his elixirs to cure the poisoned villagers.”

Zhong Ming opened his mouth, wanting to ask something, but so many doubts churned in his heart that he did not know where to begin.

Carpenter Li, perhaps tired himself, did not press Zhong Ming when he saw his troubled expression. Instead, he turned to leave, saying, “Village Chief Sun is awake and resting inside. You should go see him. Since Daoist Zhang has cured the poison, there’s no need to rush about anymore. Relying on others is never as good as relying on oneself. You went to the city to beg those wealthy folk, but they were never likely to help you.”

There was a hint of meaning in Carpenter Li’s words—he seemed to know exactly what Zhong Ming had gone through, as if he’d expected it all along.

But Zhong Ming’s mind was in turmoil; he didn’t have the energy for riddles. He simply nodded and walked into the house.

Inside, Old Sun sat by the bedside, sipping hot broth, with Sun Luolian tending to him. The old man’s complexion looked much improved, though he still seemed fatigued.

Zhong Ming hurried over. “Uncle Sun, you’re all right now.”

“Ah, Xiao Zhong, I’m fine. I don’t know what evil spirit we provoked yesterday, that so many of us fell ill together. If not for Daoist Zhang’s elixirs, I fear none of us would have made it.”

Cradling the hot broth, Old Sun sighed, then blew on it and began sipping, the sound soft and comforting. The illness had sapped his strength, and the hot broth was just what he needed to warm his chilled body.

Zhong Ming didn’t want to disturb him, so he sat on a bench and looked out at the two priests in the courtyard.

The blind old priest, still in his greasy, worn robe, lounged in the rattan chair, seemingly resting. His eyes were empty sockets, and together with his gaunt face and wild white beard, he looked more terrifying than any ghost.

The young priest was altogether different—cheerful and smiling at all, his handsome features occasionally drawing teasing remarks from the village widows, which made him blush crimson.

Such strange and mysterious priests—Zhong Ming narrowed his eyes, mind racing.

At some point, Sun Luolian slipped to his side and softly asked, “Brother Zhong, would you like a bowl of rice soup?”

Her words broke his train of thought. He smiled at the girl, realizing he hadn’t eaten since getting up and was famished. “I’ll have a bowl, thank you. I was so busy seeking medicine that I forgot to eat.”

Sun Luolian giggled and brought him a generous bowl of rice soup—more rice than broth—and a small dish of pickled wild greens.

As Zhong Ming began to eat, Sun Luolian asked shyly, “Brother Zhong, is it good?”

“It’s delicious. If it’s made by Xiaolian, of course it’s delicious.”

Seeing him give her a thumbs up, the girl beamed with delight, her whole face alight with satisfaction.

As Sun Luolian gazed at Zhong Ming with starry eyes, Old Sun, perhaps unable to endure it any longer, coughed. “Xiaolian, fetch Grandpa another bowl.”

She hurried to take his bowl, while Zhong Ming, nearly finished, looked up and, no longer distracted by hunger, asked, “Uncle Sun, who are those two priests in the courtyard?”

At the mention of the priests, Old Sun patted his head. “Ah, I forgot to tell you about them. A few days ago, I went searching for a priest to conduct the Qingming rites. I scoured the city but found no one suitable, then heard of two wandering priests at the ruined temple west of town. So I went to see, and that’s how I found these two.

“They’re no charlatans, mind you. They’re true descendants of the Zhang Patriarch of Dragon Gate Mountain, from the same lineage as the priests who once tended the ruined temple. Since times have been peaceful, they thought to settle here and inherit the temple.

“We’d arranged for the Qingming rites today, but with this plague upon the village, the priests said this was not an auspicious year for ritual. We’ll postpone until next year.”

As Old Sun began rambling about the rituals again, Zhong Ming lost interest, turning instead to ponder what he’d just heard.

It seemed both priests hailed from Dragon Gate Mountain. Zhong Ming had heard many tales of that place, especially since the former priests at the ruined temple were also said to be its descendants. They would often recount stories of Dragon Gate Mountain.

Dragon Gate Mountain lay in the southwest of New Tang—a perilous range, with a waterfall said to reach the heavens. The tale went that once every ten years, a magical carp would swim upstream there; if it could leap over the waterfall and reach the Dragon Pool at the summit, it would transform into a dragon. Hence, the mountain was named Dragon Gate.

On the mountain dwelled the most renowned Taoists since the time before the Sundering—descendants of Patriarch Zhang Daoling, founders of the Pill Cauldron Sect.

Zhang Daoling, native to this era, was said to have realized the Way amid cosmic upheaval, wielded the Taoist divine sword, and left a great “Dao” character scorched into a boulder by lightning, ascending to immortality in the flesh.

At that time, Zhang Daoling was already eighty, well into old age. From then on, he established the Pill Cauldron Sect on Dragon Gate Mountain, with the thunder-struck stone as its gate.

He lived to over one hundred and eighty. Under his guidance, the sect flourished for a hundred years and, after his passing, continued to thrive, even becoming the state religion during the height of the previous Chen dynasty.

Emperor Gaozu of Chen was devout, and upon founding his state, declared the Pill Cauldron Sect the national faith. But with the fall of the Chen court and new rulers on the throne, the sect went into decline.

Recently, New Tang decreed a ban on private shrines and unlicensed preaching, plunging the Pill Cauldron Sect into an unprecedented crisis. The old priests must be finding life exceedingly hard.

Given these circumstances, it was understandable for Dragon Gate priests to seek survival in distant, remote places—especially here, where an old temple of theirs still stood.

Tapping the table absently, Zhong Ming felt he could now somewhat understand why these two had come to the borderlands. After all, they had roots here.

Just then, Fei Dacheng entered, calling, “Priests, come in—I’ll pour you some tea.”

The young priest had just finished distributing the elixirs, and Fei Dacheng was ushering them inside.

The handsome youth supported the blind old priest. Once inside, the old priest tucked his hands into his sleeves, turned his empty gaze on Zhong Ming, and broke into a chilling smile.

“Layman Zhong, fate brings us together again.”